Reincarnated as a Femboy Slave - Chapter 140

Chapter 140: Dance of Death
I woke the next morning with the distinct feeling that every inch of my body had been replaced with wet sand. Heavy, sluggish, borderline useless.

It was a miracle I even managed to roll out from my bunk, though I did so with the grace of a dying seal, flopping to the floor and just lying there for a few seconds to contemplate my life choices.

The ache of last night’s failures still lingered in my bones, and even as I dragged myself upright and stumbled toward the training hall with Iskanda’s attendant, because apparently she refused to let even a moment pass on training me today, I had to forcibly remind myself that the universe did not, regrettably, accept pity as a form of magical protection.

I told myself things would go smoothly today. I lied.

Iskanda was already waiting for me when I arrived. She lifted two fingers in a lazy greeting, the kind of gesture that said she’d been awake since dawn to judge my punctuality.

“Ready to work?” she called.

I muttered something in a language only exhausted, sleep-deprived demons speak, and she took it as a yes.

The first half of the day was spent on archery drills, which would have been fine if not for the fact that Iskanda’s version of archery involved “shooting with the intent to kill.”

I stood in the sand with my bow drawn, posture steady, the world sharpening in that eerie, crystal-cut way it always did whenever I tapped into the elven sight I’d stolen from her.

Iskanda circled me in slow, deliberate loops, her eyes narrowed in that appraising way that made me feel simultaneously impressive and deeply endangered. Every so often she’d stop, grab my wrist with zero warning, adjust it by approximately three degrees, and then stroll back like she hadn’t just manhandled me like a malfunctioning marionette.

To my mild surprise, I was able to hit my targets dead center almost every time. Not gracefully, mind you, not with the serene elven elegance she managed to radiate even while insulting my posture, but efficiently enough that she had to start setting up smaller and smaller targets just to keep me sweating.

By noon, my fingers were raw from the string, my shoulders ached like I’d offended them personally, and I’d been forced to shoot at everything from spinning discs to tiny moving pendulums to a smug little marble she’d thrown in the air just to mock me.

Iskanda clapped me on the back between drills, each congratulatory slap strong enough to loosen my soul from my body, and told me I was “making progress.”

This was a bold statement about someone who had, in fact, been landing perfect shots for the last hour—and yet somehow still felt judged by every arrow that dared waver more than a hair’s breadth off-center.

I wasn’t sure whether I was proud, exhausted, or just waiting for her next impossible demand. Possibly all three.

Eventually, she waved me off the range and motioned for me to follow her to the center of the training hall. I trailed after her silently, still panting lightly.

Iskanda rolled her shoulders with languid ease. “Alright,” she said with a wolfish smile, “It’s time to retest your skill in hand-to-hand combat.”

I nodded before taking my stance, spreading my feet in the sand, squaring my shoulders in what I hoped was the correct orientation and not the posture of a confused flamingo.

Iskanda mirrored me—except her stance didn’t look like a stance so much as a promise of future pain. The air between us grew tense, humming faintly as if the entire arena were holding its breath on my behalf.

And then she moved.

Fast.

Iskanda’s first strike came at me like a gust of wind exiting a long, narrow tunnel—sharp, precise, impossible to track.

I barely managed to enhance my left ankle in time, pushing off the sand to dodge the sweeping arc of her leg. Heat bloomed along my ribs from the air pressure alone, and before I could even think to counter, she was already behind me, fingers brushing the base of my spine with a taunting touch.

I spun, swinging a fist while simultaneously throwing my enhancement toward my right shoulder, and she deflected it with insulting ease. The impact rippled up my arm, sending a jolt through my elbow, and I stumbled back, sand spraying around my heels.

“You’re thinking too much,” Iskanda called, weaving around my next punch like it was a mildly unpleasant odor. “Get out of your head. Get into your body.”

“My body is busy being beaten,” I snapped.”Tell it to multitask.”

She lunged again, but this time I felt something spark inside me—an instinct, a subtle current shifting beneath my ribs.

I inhaled sharply, letting the sensation flood down into my left calf, and pushed forward with sudden force. The sand exploded under my foot, my speed doubling as I reached her flank, and for one precious second I thought I’d finally done it—I’d actually outmaneuvered her.

Iskanda promptly grabbed me by the wrist, flipped me over her shoulder, and buried me in the sand. The ceiling spun above me in a shimmering blur. I groaned. A shadow cast over me as she crouched, smirking. “Better.”

“That was better?!”

“You didn’t die.”

“Yet,” I muttered.

The next hour was a blur of blows, dodges, enhancements, sand in my mouth, sand in my hair, sand in places sand should never be. Each time she struck, I was forced to react instinctively, channeling enhancements into my limbs with sharp precision—my knee to pivot, my elbow to guard, my back to brace against impact.

Eventually I stopped thinking altogether and simply moved, each decision guided by a combination of desperation and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, I’d survive until dinner.

Then Iskanda changed the rules.

She dashed toward the wall, planted one foot against the marble, and shot upward in a blur. Before I could process what was happening, she launched herself from surface to surface, bouncing off the walls at impossible angles, her figure streaking through the air like some vengeful shooting star.

My eyes strained to follow her, my breath catching as she flickered across the chamber, each landing punctuated by a whisper-soft thud. She was everywhere and nowhere, circling me in dizzying loops.

I listened. I waited. I pivoted with sharp, jerking movements, heart pounding in my throat, feeling more prey than student.

And then—silence.

She disappeared.

The chamber fell eerily still, the witch light overhead humming softly, dust drifting down in lazy spirals. I stood alone in the wide arena, chest heaving, sweat trickling down the back of my neck like a cold accusation.

I turned slowly, eyes darting to every crevice, every shadow, every elevated beam. Nothing. Not even a flicker of movement.

“Iskanda?” I whispered. My voice cracked.

Then a whistle pierced the air. I spun. And there it was. An arrow—one of her monstrous, spear-thick arrows—flying straight at my skull.

Time slowed.

Instinct roared.

The world snapped into focus, the air sharpening around me like shattered glass. My elven sight burst open behind my eyes, expanding my vision into fractal clarity, and before conscious thought could catch up, I drew my energy outward and focused it into my forearm.

And then—

A second impact. Behind me. A fist.

It was Iskanda.

She’d appeared at my back in the same instant the arrow reached my front, executing a two-way pincer attack. I cursed aloud, teeth grinding so hard they nearly sparked.

In one burst of motion, my left hand snapped around the arrow’s shaft while my right palm clasped around Iskanda’s knuckles before her fist could make contact, stopping the blow cold. The pressure between us erupted outward, sand detonating in a storm that rippled across the chamber in a deafening boom.

For one long moment I stood there, eyes clenched shut, body trembling. A scorching ache pulsed through my veins, equal parts agony and euphoria, and I didn’t dare breathe lest I shatter whatever precarious miracle was happening.

Then—slowly—I opened my eyes.

The arrow hovered just inches from my skull, frozen in place.

Iskanda’s fist rested in my palm.

And I—

Saints above—

I felt two enhancements active at once.

One in each arm.

Iskanda stared at me, her expression unreadable for several seconds before it cracked into a slow, feral smirk. “Well,” she murmured, “would you look at that.”

I staggered back, horror and awe mixing violently in my chest. The arrow thudded into the sand as I dropped it. Iskanda lowered her hand, still grinning like she’d just watched her child take their first steps except, in this case, those steps involved surviving a double-sided murder attempt.

I stood there in the settling haze, chest heaving, arms still tingling from the aftershock of channeling way more energy than any sane person should ever attempt, and the first words that finally tore out of my mouth came out higher and more frantic than I would’ve liked.

“Gods above, were you trying to kill me?!” I squeaked, the pitch scraping embarrassingly toward a register reserved for small rodents and people witnessing tax audits.

I jabbed a shaking finger at the arrow lying harmlessly at my feet, then at the imprint of her fist in my palm, then back up at her face, which was infuriatingly serene—as if orchestrating my near-death experience had been nothing more than a light morning stretch.

“Seriously—because it really felt like you were trying to murder me in stereo.”

Iskanda brushed a bit of sand off her knuckles with a casual flick. “If I were trying to kill you,” she said airily, “you’d be dead the moment we started.”

She started walking a slow half-circle around me, hands clasped behind her back, chin tilted with professorial patience.

“I was merely accelerating your progression. Dramatically so, I might add. You should thank me. Most trainees don’t get pushed this far until they’re at least… well, alive long enough to stop asking if I’m trying to kill them.”

My jaw dropped. “Accelerating my progression?” I echoed, voice cracking like a faulty hinge. “You’re insane. Completely, absolutely, categorically insane. You launched a ballistic tree trunk at my skull while trying to pulverize my spine! Saints above, who does that?”

“Relax,” she said, waving a hand as if dismissing my emotional state. “I wouldn’t have shot the arrow if I didn’t think you’d catch it. You’ve got instincts buried under all those… dramatics. I simply coaxed them out.”

I blinked at her, utterly aghast. “You’re joking right?”

She didn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, she strode past me, boots crunching lightly through the sand, posture relaxed, almost graceful in its unbothered swagger.

For a moment she didn’t look back at all, then she lifted one hand and motioned lazily over her shoulder for me to follow.

“Follow me,” she said, utterly unfazed. “We’re done here. It’s time you reattempted the course.”

My stomach dropped.

My soul briefly attempted to exit my body.

But I followed anyway—because what other choice did I have?